Translator: AkazaTL
Pr/Ed: Sol IX
***
Chapter 110. Ballad (1)
“A commotion broke out in so remote village of Verdí, or so I heard.”
A tavern.
The story spilled out among the drunkards’ idle chatter.
“Which village are you talking about?”
“You know that western village is haunted by grim rumors—the one where no one lives.”
“The one where they said an evil black mage had settled, or that a Monster Wave swept through, or that a terrible unknown plague spread?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Ha! You’re behind on your gossip. Those were all proven false. That village has recently beco one of the fastest-growing places in southern Verdí. So noble mage settled there and is developing it into his territory. I heard the old folks who feared wild beasts, the farrs ruined by drought, and even the vagabonds with nowhere to go have all gathered there. They say he accepts anyone—so everyone wants to go there.”
“You’re the one who’s ignorant, my friend.”
The drunkards’ voices grew louder.
“The people who gathered there to live better—they’re all running away again. There’s even a family who fled from there to our own town.”
“Running away? Why?”
“They say the young lord ruling that small village caused so kind of incident. Word is, knights—terrifying ones—have gone there to find him. Even mysterious mages wielding bizarre magic are accompanying them!”
“Oh heavens, is that true?”
“I’m telling you, it is.”
The tavern buzzed with tales and gossip, the voices swelling—and swelling.
“No one knows what sin the young lord committed, but they say the knights’ fury was terrifying. Whatever it was, they shouted that he must take responsibility. And here’s the truly fascinating part.”
“What happened?”
“That young lord—barely eighteen, with golden hair and blue eyes—took up a sword and challenged the highest of those noble knights to a duel.”
“Well now, that sounds like the reckless passion of youth.”
“Reckless passion? Tch, more like he takes after his father.”
“His father?”
One of the drunkards clicked his tongue.
“They say the boy’s father once went mad—truly lost his mind. Believed himself to be a hero out of so chivalric romance.”
“My word.”
“And now, in his direst mont, the son’s gone mad the sa way. Threw away his sanity and sank into wild delusions—”
The drunkard’s voice now filled the entire tavern, louder than the ballad sung by the bards. And so, even an old man sitting alone in a corner, quietly sipping cheap beer, heard it all. And that old man could not—absolutely could not—ignore what he’d heard.
“...Excuse .”
The old man approached the drunkards.
“Could you tell more about that story?”
“Ah, of course.”
The old man sat, and the drunkards chuckled. One of them asked,
“But why so interested in our gossip?”
“...Because I was born in that village.”
“Oh, so you left just recently?”
“No.”
The old man drained his beer and removed his hat.
“I left quite so ti ago.”
“...”
“Back when the lord of that village was not the young boy you speak of, but the one who fell to madness—my master, who, though he lost his sanity and dread wild, impossible dreams, was the kindest man this continent had ever known—and whose eyes burned like those of a boy.”
“Wh-what the hell, old man!”
The tavern gasped. The old man’s face was hideous—his scalp was warped by burns, half his face covered in dreadful scars.
The drunkards spat, cursed, and stood up. Others joined in, hurling insults—told him to get out, to crawl back to the gutter.
“Get out, old man.”
And so, before he could hear the rest of the tale, the old man was thrown out of the tavern.
He pulled his worn hat back on, looking pitiful and alone. He trudged through the dark streets until he ca to a stable. Inside was not a horse—but a donkey. An old donkey, as frail as its master.
“Why the long face, coming back all gloomy like that?”
Beside the donkey stood an old woman.
She patted the weary man’s shoulder and joked softly, but he didn’t answer. After a mont of silence, the man spoke.
“I think... I’ll go back ho.”
“...After leaving with such pain?”
“Yes. I must go back.”
He slowly climbed onto the donkey’s back.
The old woman watched with sorrowful eyes, glistening with tears. The man t her gaze and said,
“Will you co with , nanny?”
“I’ve no right to go back.”
“I’ve no right either.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. We’re both fugitives, aren’t we?”
“Then it’s not about right. It's the courage I lack.”
The old woman smiled faintly—then said,
“Please... take good care of young master Arhan, Butler Sancho.”
***
Far to the left. Far to the right. Two n stood.
And—Two swords awaited.
“Hoo...”
I breathed in. Mana filled my lungs. My second heart began to pound. For a fleeting instant, I was permitted the power of a superhuman—and that power infused my blade.
Yet the one who ruled this temporary dueling ground was not . It was the man holding the other sword.
‘I must endure.’
Only one step remained for my plan to succeed.
Toma Rhapsody had sworn, in the na of the gods, that this was righteous vengeance. That ant his very soul had been broken. For so reason, Toma believed I was the one who murdered his kin and defiled his honor.
‘I have to hold on.’
If my guess was right, it was the Iron Prince’s sche. And if it was his sche, the one who carried it out must have been his Executioner—Swordmaster Carlos, the sharpest blade of all the Iron Prince possessed.
‘I am the key.’
Toma Rhapsody had forgotten the truth. That was why no divine punishnt fell upon him, even though he swore by the nas of the gods. Caretaker Tom once said: “Great power cos with great responsibility.” By that rule, Toma—descendant of a great house—should have been held accountable. Should have been punished by omniscient gods who know all things. But he wasn’t.
Why? Because in his mind, what he believed was the truth.
‘These may be the longest ten seconds of my life.’
There was only one way to set this right—Make him rember. Make Toma recall that final duel of the 「Infinite Duel」. The mont when our swords clashed and our souls touched.
To do that, I had to recreate that battle. That duel. Steel against Wave—it lasted ten seconds.
Ten seconds—enough for Toma to rember the truth buried deep within his soul.
My sword would draw it out. And the mont he realized, everything would turn around.
He had sworn by the nas of the Nine Goddesses and Seven Lords.
The stage was set. Only my sword remained.
‘Even so... I must endure.’
The completion of the plan rested at the tip of my blade.
Edan Rhapsody. Renowned across the continent. Heir to a great house. Swordmaster candidate.
I had to withstand the wrath of a swordsman far beyond my reach. It felt impossible. Foolish. Reckless. Insane. But I had to do it.
“My lord! You can win this!”
I had to protect my village. Protect my people.
Beco the hero of the farmhands.
‘You must rember this glorious mont.’
Just this once—I had to be a hero.
‘Always carry the pride of being a Karavan, and rember that the blood of steel flows within you. One day, you’ll reclaim your glory.’
Even if the world mocked as mad, even if they laughed, even if no one ever acknowledged — just like my father, who had taken up his sword and stood against overwhelming odds. Just like him, who faced the world to the bitter end without retreat.
“My lord, stay strong—!”
I closed my eyes. The faint, pitiful cheers of the villagers—my people—grew louder, grander.
As darkness fell behind my eyelids, a light rose. A lantern. It glimred like a star—and countless stars began to bloom.
『How blessed was the age when one could gaze upon the starry sky and read from it the map of all roads—both where to go, and where one must go.』
Long ago—in the era of the stars—the first monarch looked upon such a world.
『And how blessed was the age when the starlight illuminated every path.』
Like the man who beca the lantern that guided the wandering souls.
Now, the world within 「The Light」 ca vividly into view. Inside the blade I had refined through Ingestion, another world existed.
A world contained within steel. As I faced that world—another one appeared.
『I decided to beco the wind for you.』
『And you said—』
『Let’s die. Let’s die here. Let’s not fight this cruel world. Let’s just die together.』
A lonely ronin.
A man who lived like the wind.
『But I couldn’t. You don’t know—』
『What I dream of.』
The dream of that man—
『I beca the wind for you.』
『A wind that can sweep away anything.』
The Mage of Oz. Dorothy.
The ronin’s love was swallowed by the whirlwind he created—a storm that took away the woman’s life, her tears, her hatred, and the trials of a rciless world.
Now I could see it. Now I could feel the sword.
Two swords. And by understanding them, I felt another—a faint, blurred, mysterious third blade.
“Ready.”
But the world wouldn’t wait for .
The knight standing between us raised his hand. Then—
“Begin—!”
The duel began.
“—Hup.”
The instant the signal rang, I held my breath. I invoked the combustion Mystery within 「The Light」, burning my breath, straining for power beyond my limit—a desperate struggle, if only to cross blades with that prodigy for a fleeting mont.
But—
“Pathetic.”
My opponent was a swordsman beyond reason.
“What—”
I couldn’t see him.
Edan Rhapsody was already before —as if he’d been there all along. I barely had ti to swing. Mocking my flailing, he moved his hand.
A simple thrust—with a wooden rod.
A wooden stick. And my sword, forged of winter steel by dwarves.
Two mismatched weapons collided.
The instant they t, I nearly lost consciousness. An overwhelming shock like I had never known—a crushing weight that seed to shatter my very soul.
「Stay conscious.」
It felt like my heart was breaking apart. My limbs felt severed from my body.
I couldn’t tell if I was still standing or had already collapsed.
「One second.」
But one thing was certain—I still held my sword.
Then—
「From now—one second.」
What I had to do remained unchanged.
「Make this mont your awakening.」
The taste of blood filled my mouth. My head spun, my vision blurred.
Yet—I couldn’t let go of my sword.
「If you want to live—」
The fight had only just begun.
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